


Killing The Joke

by LtSaladmander



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: A Lot More DC Characters Will Probably Show Up, A Random Gotham Citizen Shoots Joker, Almost Like She Killed A Man In Cold Blood, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amazing How Much Gets Fixed When You Have One (1) Semi-Sensible Person, And I Have Issues With Him But Canon Doesn't Exist Here So I Can Probably Fix Him, And I Really Wanted The Joker To Get Shot, And It’s Non-Negotiable, And The Whacky Shenanigans That Follow, Because He Had It Coming, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, But In Her Defence He Deserved It, But No One Will Leave Her Alone, Detective Comics, Every Possible Timeline is Mashed Together, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Her Name Is Paz Because It Means Peace And I Thought It Would Be Funny, I Didn't Tag Major Character Death Because It's The Joker, It's Just a Very Tired College Student Trying Her Best, Making None Of The Robins White As My Personal Fuck-You To Racist 40s Comic Writers, Mixing Comics And T.V. Shows Together Because I Don't Care And It's Already Convoluted, Paz Swears a Lot Sorry, Starts In The Mid-To-Late Years of Dick Grayson as Robin, The Batfam Is a FAMILY Goddammit, The Official Timeline I’m Using Is Called “I Do What I Want”, This Is Just One College Student's Very Bad Day That Turns Into A Very Bad Year Or Several, This is OC-centric But Only Because No One In Canon Fit, and he's the worst, everyone deserves to be happy, take nothing seriously, the joker dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtSaladmander/pseuds/LtSaladmander
Summary: If you were to make a list of the entire population of Gotham, in order of most to least likely to finally kill the Joker, a random exhausted college student wouldn’t even be on it.Paz didn’t really think much of killing Gotham’s resident psychotic clown (he was justright thereand what else was she supposed to do? She couldn’t afford to be any later to her class) but now every villain and their aunt seem to want to prove themselves better than the late Clown Prince of Crime. She just would love for everyone to stop breaking down her door because she really,reallycan’t afford to keep replacing it
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	1. Would Kill For A Decent Cup Of Coffee

Paz was tired. The soul-sucking, eye-watering, feel-it-in-your-teeth type of tired. Which was completely unfair, as she had actually managed to get a solid five hours of sleep last night, but it seemed it had just served as a signal for her body to foot her the bill for the past nine weeks of two-hour, maybe-three-hour-if-you-counted-the-long-blinks nights. Her throat felt weirdly gummy and dry all at once even though she was fairly sure she’d at least made a cursory attempt at brushing her teeth before she walked out the door. It was equal parts fascinating and disgusting–No, that was a lie, it was definitely more disgusting. What the hell _was_ that? 

She had a coffeemaker at the apartment. It was a shitty, run-down thing, and took a great deal of jiggling to even turn on, but it worked and it had been cheap. So, really, there was no reason for her to be here, about to pay far too much for a cup of coffee she could easily recreate for about an eighth of the price. Except that coffeemaker really was shitty, and she wanted a _good_ cup of coffee, dammit. Or at least a halfway decent one. Something a step above tar.

That was how she found herself standing in line that was far too long and far too loud to be anywhere close to the coffee shop she had been aiming for, but stranger things had happened than Alan getting his shit together and finally advertising for once.

“Just give me my usual,” Paz said, already holding one of her precious five dollar bills that really should be going towards her food budget instead (according to her doctor, coffee didn’t count as food, but Dr. Ford later ran off to be one of Scarecrow’s minor goons, so her judgment was suspect at best).

The barista stared at her uncertainly. “Uh... miss? I have no idea what that is.”

Paz peered at him for a moment. He was young, with dirty blonde hair like a straw mop on his head and the kind of blue eyes you only noticed enough to decide they weren’t brown, and he was completely unfamiliar.

“Huh. Which coffee shop is this again?” Paz asked.

“This is _A Brew-_ _tiful_ _Day,_ ” he told her, still eyeing her like he didn’t quite know what to make of her.

That was… surprisingly cheerful for Gotham. Paz was surprised some villain hadn’t destroyed the place yet on principal. Then again, it was probably just a front for money laundering. It was also decidedly _not_ the place Paz had aimed for. Where the hell was _A Brew-_ _tiful_ _Day_?

The barista (he had a very clear nametag that Paz didn’t bother to read) went to say something else before he looked at her face again and paused, face pinching in the vague concern one feels for someone they don’t know and don’t want to. “Miss, are you okay?”

“Probably not,” Paz admitted freely. “But I have like three finals tomorrow, so just give me your most caffeinated drink.”

If anything, this just made the weird pinched-look more pronounced, but he wisely didn’t say anything further and simply turned to pass on her order. He hadn’t actually given her a price, but Paz was nice enough to leave the five on the counter as she stepped out of line anyway. She slumped in the nearest chair, not caring to check if the table was empty or not. It was only a few minutes before a pale hand set a drink in front of her. Paz snorted at the nearly illegible _Dying Girl??_ scrawled on the side.

“Thanks,” Paz said, glancing up at the woman smiling down at her.

“‘s no problem. They called the name and I was just _dying_ to see who it was,” the woman said, plopping into the chair opposite, which Paz was fairly sure had been occupied by someone else a few moments ago. “But, seriously, you’re looking a little rough, there. You doing okay, sweetie?”

“I am now.” Paz took a gulp of the drink, wrinkling her nose at the burnt, bitter taste. “Ugh.” Definitely laundering money. And still, sadly, a step above the shitty coffeemaker.

“Well no wonder it don’t taste good. I just watched them put in nine shots of expresso!” the woman laughed.

The information made Paz perk up a bit. “Nine?” She might actually make it through the day. And possibly the night. Maybe the morning after, too.

The woman shook her head with a smile, tipping her chair back to balance on the back legs. The chair creaked in protest, but she didn’t seem to care. “That can’t be healthy.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not,” Paz agreed. A quick glance at her watch reminded her why she was dead on her feet at 8 a.m. instead of sound asleep. She had fifteen minutes to make it to Prof. Vargas’s lecture, which was possibly across the city from here, depending on where exactly ‘here’ was. She slid from the chair and did a quick check of her bag. She _probably_ wasn’t robbed blind under her nose but, well, it was Gotham. “But I’ll be fine. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Get some sleep, kiddo,” the woman said, giving a lazy salute in lieu of a goodbye.

“Will do,” Paz said, only mostly lying.

The street outside was surprisingly empty for Gotham. It was a nice day, too, which almost felt unnatural. Sunshine clashed horribly with all the gargoyles. There didn’t used to be that many–granted, _any_ amount of gargoyles was weird and more than a bit concerning–but the Rogues Gallery kept destroying the city, and the city kept rebuilding and _adding more gargoyle_ s. Paz couldn’t see many currently, which meant she was probably in the Upper East Side. They were just marginally less committed to the aesthetic. Marginally. Paz was going to be incredibly late. She took a sip of the coffee strong enough to burn her nose. Worth it.

It was quiet out, but Paz didn’t think much of it until she turned the corner and heard a quiet but unmistakable _click_. Her head jerked up and Paz found herself looking down the barrel of a gun. Her first thought was _mugging_ , even if it was in broad daylight in what was supposed the slightly-more-decent part of the city, because Gotham was terrible like that. But the face behind the gun was painted white, with a cartoon-ish red smile smeared across his mouth, and Paz felt her heart sink. Beyond him was an entire street full of civilians, seated on the ground and stoically silent. Some were crying, a few just looked annoyed. One or two weren’t moving. Armed men and women moved among them, each wearing the same purple factory uniform. And there, in the midst of it all, not more than ten feet from Paz, was a green-haired figure in a garish purple suit.

“Sit down and put your hands up,” the man in front of her ordered.

The Joker was laughing and saying something to the street at large. Paz didn’t bother listening to what it was. Paz was exhausted, she was late to her class, and the stupid fucking clown was starting shit again.

She eyed the man before her. He was only about four inches taller than her, stocky and muscled in a way that would make his occupation obvious even without the getup. _Goon_ was practically tattooed across his forehead. He looked almost bored, barely paying any attention to her even with his gun a few inches from touching her face. His finger wasn’t even on the trigger, and his grip was loose. Unconcerned. Paz’s gaze flickered back to the eyesore in green and purple. He was mostly faced away from her, and now a woman in a white and yellow dress was being dragged up in front of him, a gun digging into her temple hard enough to bruise, no doubt to encourage Gotham’s resident vigilantes to hurry the hell up. The Clown Prince of Crime did always have a raging bat fetish.

The caffeine still hadn’t kicked in yet. Every muscle somehow was sore, Paz had a truly terrific headache, and she felt the urge to do something incredibly stupid. Paz, making careful eye contact with the man in front of her, slowly bent down and set her cup on the ground.

It was easy to pluck the gun from Goon-Man’s hands. He didn’t have the time to look surprised before Paz’s foot went up between his legs, and he hunched over with a pained _oof_ and instinctively stumbled back.

Ten feet away. The woman was crying now. A man in a t-shirt and ratty jeans had joined her in front of the Joker. He was still laughing. Paz raised the gun, aimed, and fired three times. The Joker jerked forward and the laughter cut off, the last of it echoing off the surrounding buildings, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

Paz would have expected chaos, with lots of shouting and possibly more shooting, probably at her, but the entire street seemed frozen. Only a few people had turned to look her way. Most people’s eyes were glued to the sprawled form and the red that was quickly seeping into the purple and green. Paz reached down to retrieve her coffee, took a sip, and turned back the way she came.


	2. Mama, Just Killed A Man

Paz didn’t know what possessed her to break the news to her mother with a cryptic text reading “ _Hey mom, you know the second verse of Bohemian Rhapsody?_ ”, but she was unconvinced that it _wasn’t_ some postmortem contingency the Joker had set up involving some kind of mind control device designed to get her killed as quickly as possible. As soon as the helpful little ‘ _delivered_ ’ appeared below the fateful text, Paz’s trek down the mortal coil became less of a shuffle and more of an Olympic sprint. How long she had left to live depended entirely on how willing her mother was to step foot in the “flea-ridden cesspool that Hell rejected”. Considering they were currently separated by the entirety of the state of Pennsylvania, Paz estimated a grace period of at least a day. Maybe two.

Paz’s phone buzzed somewhere between darting into the nearest alley to empty her stomach onto the concrete (a waste of perfectly okay-ish coffee, but she _had_ just killed a man in cold blood, so she figured it could be excused this once) and turning the corner of Doherty and Billingham. She glanced at it just long enough to read “ _What the hell, kid”_ before stuffing it back in her pocket and picking up the pace. Paz mentally recalculated her path–she certainly couldn’t go to class now. Gotham City PD was in Old Gotham–or, as Paz liked to think of it, the start of the Gargoyle Infestation–which was across the river, so. No walking. Paz sighed. Cab it was.

Hailing one turned out to be shockingly easy, almost as if the universe was preemptively apologizing for the shitshow that was sure to be awaiting her at the GCPD. Paz was trying not to think about it. The man behind the wheel had given her a calculating glance when she told him her destination, but thankfully didn’t remark upon it further.

There was nothing left in her stomach anymore, but nausea still churned it uncomfortably as the caffeine finally hit her system and mixed nastily with the shot of _holy fuck I just did that_ adrenaline. Whether it was the shooting-a-man thing or the text that did it, Paz couldn’t tell you, because the idea of her mother coming back to Gotham and trying to drag her to Ohio was at least on par with, if not worse, than the idea of the Joker’s allies looking for revenge, mainly because she knew her mother wasn’t above actually drugging and kidnapping her to do it. Did the Joker even have allies? No, right? He was a literal psycho clown. Bat-shit crazy, in more than one respect.

“Miss, we’re here.”

That was fast. Or maybe she wasn’t processing time correctly right now? Who the fuck knows. Not Paz. Her precious caffeine had already turned against her and it wasn’t even keeping her awake while it did it.

“Thanks. How much I owe you?” Paz asked, rummaging through her bag for the couple twenties she kept for emergencies.

“Twenty-two fifty,” he said.

Paz politely pretended taximeter didn’t say thirty-five sixty and handed him the money. She must look rougher than she thought.

It was still sunny, which looked even more alien in Old Gotham. However bad she thought the rest of the city was, it had _nothing_ on Old Gotham. Place practically bled pointed arches, flying buttresses, and, of course, fucking _gargoyles._ This is where the disease started, and for that Paz would never forgive good old Pinkney _or_ Wayne. Dude’s descendant was making good progress making up for the crimes of his ancestor with the charities and youth outreach programs, but he was still related to Solomon Wayne, which meant Paz would never think well of him until every last gargoyle was removed.

If Paz had to describe the GCPD as it was when she stepped inside in three words, it would be “a fucking mess”. Officers and what Paz assumed were civilian administrators hurried back and forth. Everyone seemed to be trying to talk over each other, and there was far too much paper on the floor to be in any way safe. The source seemed to be one middle-aged officer staring at the scattered papers with something like despair. Paz assumed they had, at one point, been neatly stacked and in the officer’s hands.

It took a few moments of hovering awkwardly at the outskirts before a woman in a wrinkled blouse and pencil skirt passing by seemed to realize Paz didn’t belong.

“You. Who are you,” she demanded, halting to stand in front of her.

“Uh, I’ve just come from the Joker attack on Murphy Avenue–”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re already on it,” the woman interrupted impatiently. “Anything else?”

If Paz had the energy, she would glare. But, alas, she had to settle for a few select names in her head and a flat stare. “Yeah, I’m the one who shot the Joker.”

 _That_ stopped her short. The woman’s eyes scanned her, and Paz had the feeling she was being evaluated and cataloged, and found she didn’t really appreciate the sensation. The woman seemed to come to some conclusion only she was privy to and nodded sharply.

“Come with me,” she ordered, and then strode off into the sea of chaos.

Paz tried her best to keep up, but the woman was scarily fast. She had to half-jog just to stay within five feet. Most people kept out of their way, which made Paz wonder just who she was following. The woman finally halted in front of a door with a frosted glass window and _Commissioner Gordon_ printed on it in muted gold lettering. The woman didn’t even pause before throwing the door open and storming in, yanking Paz along by sheer force of her gravitational pull.

“Gordon, I’ve got a woman here who says she’s our gunman,” the woman said, nodding to Paz.

Commissioner Gordon looked exactly like he always did over the broadcasts or the few times Paz had seen him at a distance. Face carved in harsh, stern lines, salt-and-pepper hair that was still more pepper than salt, rectangle glasses, and a mustache that belonged in a museum. The man looked straight out of an old noir novel, but Paz supposed the whole city was just a noir novel brought to life, except their private eye actively chooses to go out dressed as a bat, complete with matching underwear (Most people forgot the Batman’s first suit. Paz did not).

“That so?” the Commissioner, if possible, looked even more exhausted than her. He was sitting in his chair as if he really wanted to slump into it, but was too professional to do so. His gaze flickered over Paz and he nodded thoughtfully. “Matches the few reliable descriptions we’ve got so far. Agnes, can you grab Detective Greene and have her meet me in interrogation room two? Let her know the situation, she’ll know what to do.”

“I’m not your secretary,” the woman–Agnes, apparently–said, but it was a rote statement, and she was already half out the door.

There was a beat of silence that Paz was certain would be awkward if either one of them had the energy for it before Paz abruptly remembered the problematic extra weight in her bag.

“Hey, is this a good time to mention I’ve still got the gun I nabbed from the Joker goon?”

Commissioner Gordon snapped to attention at that. “You have the murder weapon on you?”

Paz narrowed her eyes slightly. “Well, ‘murder’ implies premeditation, so no, but I do have the gun that I shot the Joker with, yeah.”

His face remained stern, but Paz could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched. “Where is it? Don’t show it to me, just tell me.”

Paz gestured to the bag slung across her chest. “It’s in there.”

A hand dragged across his face. If Paz looked very, very closely, she thought she might actually see his hair getting grayer. He rose from his chair with a sigh and held out his palm. “Alright, kid. Just hand over the bag and I’ll get it sorted.”

Telegraphing her movements clearly, because you could never be too careful, especially with cops, Paz slipped the strap over her head and dropped it into his waiting palm.

The soft knock of knuckles against the wood of the doorframe caught both their attentions. Paz turned her head to see a stern-looking (was that a requirement for cops in Gotham or something?) officer with carefully combed and parted silver hair and glasses. “Commissioner?”

Another sigh, this one with significantly more _oomph_. Paz seriously considered–well, no, not really, because she had never willing given someone her coffee before and she sure as hell wasn’t going to break that streak for the _police commissioner,_ but it was the thought that counted–offering Gordon what was left of her caffeine monstrosity, but she figured it wouldn’t be well-received. “What is it, Peak?”

“Agnes said you might be needing an escort for a suspect.”

“God bless that woman,” Gordon muttered. “Yes, could you take Miss…”

“Harker,” Paz supplied.

“Miss Harker to interrogation room two? Greene should already be there. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Peak nodded and jerked his head in a silent order to move. Paz complied, squeezing past him still half in the doorway to the hallway beyond. Paz understood why he didn’t want her at his back. That didn’t change how _fucking awkward_ it was to be in the lead when she didn’t know where she was going. Officer Peak was evidently well used to the weird way he backseat drove on two legs, because he didn’t bat an eyelash. Paz was batting several. Was it really too hard to just… walk side-by-side? It’s not like she was going to stab him in _the middle of the Gotham Police Department._ She had come here. Of her own volition. It’s not like she was a serial killer. She’d only killed one man in bright daylight in front of dozens of witnesses.

Yeah, okay, so maybe it was a little justified.

“Right in here, kid. On your left.”

“On your left” was a dented metal door with a small window of what Paz chose to believe was bulletproof glass, in the interest of maintaining the little respect she still held for the GCPD. The blinds were up, which gave Paz a perfect view of the lone metal chair and table bolted to the floor. Paz apparently couldn’t be trusted with a door, because the officer reached around her to twist the handle and push it open. He escorted her to the chair, but didn’t touch the handcuffs attached to the table, so Paz counted it as a win.

“Just sit tight. It won’t be too long,” were Peak’s parting words before the _shink_ of the door closing and the loud _click_ of several locks engaging.

‘It won’t be too long’ turned out to be around twenty minutes–which Paz was completely unashamed to admit she used to catch up on the truly impressive sleep debt that was shouting “ _fuck you”_ in morse code behind her eyes. It was the third deadbolt sliding back with an echoing _thunk_ that woke her, just in time to see a chipper young woman enter the room in full uniform–sans the hat–followed by a not-so-chipper Commissioner Gordon. He did, however, have a cup of coffee this time, so Paz mentally upped her chances of survival. There weren’t any more chairs, which Gordon only seemed to realize just then. He stared at the empty space across from Paz and sighed (he tended to do that a lot, but honestly so would Paz if she were in his shoes) heavily.

“We can switch if you want,” Paz offered.

That startled laugh from the woman. She immediately pressed her lips together, but Gordon didn’t really react, just kept his eyes closed just a beat too long to be considered a blink. “Nice of you to offer,” he said dryly, “but no. Let’s just get on with it.”

The Commissioner set down the cup and the woman–Detective Greene, presumably–pulled out a pen and notepad from seemingly nowhere. 

“Mind if we record you?” Commissioner Gordon asked. Paz shook her head. She had nothing to hide. 

There was a quiet _click_ as a boxy thing the size of a pocket dictionary was set on the table. 

“Can you tell us your full legal name?” He asked like he already knew the answer. To be fair, he probably did.

“Paz Harker.”

“No middle name?”

Paz shrugged. “Mom couldn’t decide on one so she just… didn’t.”

The Commissioner nodded. It seemed to be his default. “Can you tell us what happened leading up to the events that occurred today at Murphy Avenue at around 8:15 this morning?”

Ah, so she was right. Murphy Avenue. Well, even without the Joker, there was no way Paz could have ever made it to class on time. Or at all–how the hell did she even end up that far East? GCU was clear on the opposite side of Midtown, and Alan’s place wasn’t even close, but apparently sleep deprivation was even more of a bitch than Paz thought. 

“I don’t remember when exactly I woke up,” Paz began, “but I want to say it was around 7:30 A.M.? Left my apartment around 7:45, headed out to get a cup of coffee before my first class at GCU. My coffeemaker is a piece of shit, and I got stuck with an early morning one, so… y’know. Needed the caffeine, didn’t want it to taste like asphalt for once.”

Detective Greene nodded seriously as she scribbled something on the notepad. She couldn’t quite pull it off. Paz could see why Gordon asked for her. She was young, brown-haired and bright-eyed, with a seemingly natural friendly disposition that was hard to find in Gotham. Probably had ‘ _good with children’_ on her driver’s license. Paz would worry about the potential _good cop, bad cop_ setup if Commissioner Gordon looked to be in any way, shape, or form in the mood for games.

Paz went through the rest of the morning, careful not to leave anything out. Her mother had taught her how to talk to cops. Give the truth, but only the truth you want them to hear, keep your head down and don’t snark unless you’re okay with a few nights in a cell, but Paz had already broken that particular rule several times over, so she just talked.

“…the Joker was ranting about… something. I don’t really know what–I wasn’t listening, more focused on the gun in my face–but then this woman was dragged up in front of him with a gun to her head. She was crying, looked terrified.” Paz shifted on her chair, but the dented metal proved to be just as uncomfortable from all angles. “There was another man after her, too, who got dragged up. I don’t know why.”

Paz… didn’t actually know if they were okay. Sure, the Joker was dead, and it’s not like his goons had anything to gain once their employer kicked the bucket, but “sane” and “reasonable” wasn’t exactly something the Joker would have included in his _help wanted_ ad. It was daytime, so the Bat’s response time would be less than ideal, and it’s not like anyone had the chance to call the cops _before_ the Joker died. Each one of those goons still had a fully loaded weapon. 

_No, the woman and the man are_ fine, Paz told herself, and almost believed it.

“The Joker looked ready to add a few more bodies to his count,” Paz continued, as if that nasty revelation hadn’t just occurred to her, “and the guy in front of me wasn’t really paying attention and his grip was like, appallingly loose, so I just… plucked it from him and shot the homicidal terrorist clown.”

Detective Greene’s head shot up from where she’d been half-hunched over her notepad. She had, at some point, ended up half-sitting on the table. She looked delighted. “And, just to be clear, when you say “homicidal terrorist clown” you’re referring to…”

“The Joker, yes.” Paz confirmed.

“How many times did you fire the gun?” Commissioner Gordon asked, still eyeing her with a sharpness in his eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was normal for him or just something he pulled out just for her.

“Three?” Paz said. “Three.”

“And after?”

“I turned around, went back the way I came before anyone decided to shoot me, too. I think I walked maybe a block before puking in an alley,” Greene looked a little concerned at that, “and then I took a cab straight here.”

There were more questions, of course there were, and Paz did try to listen to most of them, but even the unyielding metal of the chair was starting to feel real inviting. Her twenty-minute snooze had been less than nothing. She was pretty sure it had given her enough energy to keep her head relatively upright and nothing else. Commissioner Gordon did ask her some pointed questions about any ties she had to some of the usual names, like the Galante Family, Oswald Cobblepot, the Sprang Bridge Soldiers–which, what the fuck, didn’t they control Robbinsville or something–even the Black Mask.

Look, Paz understood that the Joker was a big player, but it was a fucking _miracle_ no one had offed him before now. Dude was literally insane–in that murder-y, horror-movie way that gave grown adults nightmares for days and trauma for decades–but unless you were a Bat or a Bird, he didn’t really register you as a threat, or even really an entity. Which should have gotten him killed _years_ ago. Every Gothamite had a special brand of _fuck the Joker_ in their veins that even Joker Venom couldn’t burn out. It was only a matter of time, really. The big names didn’t have shit to do with it.

“Did you have legitimate reason to believe both your life and the lives of others were in immediate danger?” the Commissioner finally asked.

“Yes,” Paz said, then, just for good measure, added, “Absolutely.”

“Would you say you shot the Joker in self-defense to prevent any further loss of life?”

Oh, okay, so Commissioner Gordon was definitely on her side. That was nice. Could leading questions like these be used against her in court? Probably. That was–well it _wasn’t_ fine, but Paz was just going to assume he knew his support wasn’t going to be a problem for her.

“Yup.” Gordon shot her a flat look. “Yes, I would say that,” Paz amended.

The _click_ of the recording device was possibly the best sound Paz had ever heard in her life. If she could marry it, she would.

“I think we’re done here,” Commissioner Gordon said. _Oh God bless that man and his stupid, antiquated, movie-perfect mustache._ Was Paz tearing up? No, she wasn’t nearly hydrated enough for that. “Miss Harker, we’ll be in touch. Do you have someone to take you home?”

Paz shook her head. All her friends were poor college students without cars and her family had done the smart thing and moved out of Gotham. “No, the family’s in Ohio.”

He hummed, finally resting some of his weight against the corner of the table. Good. Just the sight of him had somehow been making Paz even _more_ tired. “Detective Greene will escort you home, if that’s alright with you?” He glanced at his colleague, who gave a thumbs up and a blinding grin.

“Fine by me,” Paz said, rising from her slab of metal that dared to call itself a chair. “Thank you.”

Commissioner Gordon gave her a gruff nod, but there was something in his eyes that was all too close to fatherly pride for Paz to be even close to comfortable with, and she abruptly remembered that this man had a daughter not much younger than herself.

“You be careful out there, kid,” he said, and it somehow didn’t sound like a threat. 

Detective Greene was quick to usher her out of the room, and then the building, and eventually into the nearest car, somehow acquiring a bottle of water and a sandwich from… somewhere and making sad puppy eyes at Paz until she ate the whole thing and drank at least half the bottle. The car ride… happened. At least, Paz was pretty sure it did. The Detective definitely asked her address, and Paz thought she might have even thanked her off-the-record for finally offing the Clown Prince of Crime, but it honestly could have been some mediocre fever dream. Somehow, someway, they pulled up in front of Paz’s apartment building–an old, washed-out brick-and-mortar building in the middle of east Burnley, nearly identical to the buildings on either side.

Detective Greene eyed the chipped address skeptically as Paz reached for the car door. “You got someone to stay with for the next couple days?”

That was… fair. “I’ll just call my friend Nancy. She’ll be ecstatic about a few sleepovers,” Paz said, waving off her concern. “It will be fine.”

Greene looked like she didn’t quite believe her, but while Paz liked her and all, she couldn’t really find it within herself to give a shit.

“Thank you for the ride,” Paz said, already climbing out of the car. “It was nice meeting you!”

She heard the window roll down behind her. “Hey, you ever need anything, you just ask for Detective Greene, okay?”

“Will do!”

Paz wasn’t entirely sure how she managed to get up the stairs, let alone fit the key in the lock, but somehow, she did, and almost immediately collapsed face-down onto the couch. It was worn, a little lumpy, but clean and comfortable enough, and–most importantly–vaguely horizontal. She would have been content to stay there until the next doomsday (which happened with depressing frequency), but an insistent buzz neatly derailed those plans. Paz flipped over with a groan and blindly fumbled for the phone on the side table (her mother had insisted on paying for a landline neither one of them could really afford, because the power was always the first to go during any big attack and her mother’s middle name was secretly Paranoia. Paz doubted “getting her phone confiscated as evidence after she murked the Joker” was the emergency her mother had in mind, but, hey, it paid off). She didn’t bother to check the caller ID. Paz knew who it would be.

She was proven correct when instead of a “hello” or “how are you”, or even a “are you okay”, she was greeted with a very familiar cackling laughter.

Paz sighed. “Hi, mom.”

Frankie Harker was absolutely not the name given to Paz’s mother at birth, but it was the only one Paz had ever known. She spoke Frankie like a cognomen she didn’t choose, and Paz knew “Harker” had been plucked straight from that old 70s movie _One More Train To Rob_. Paz had seen it exactly once, after coming across an old worn-out t-shirt in a box of her mother’s old stuff, with the movie poster printed on the back along with a short note scrawled underneath reading _You still owe me alcohol, ‘Harker’_ in unfamiliar handwriting. It had a few bloodstains, some more faded than others. Paz politely hadn’t mentioned it.

“So I assume you heard?”

“Oh, kiddo, you have no _idea_ ,” came her mother’s voice, crackling slightly in the old speaker. “News didn’t hit until half an hour after the fact. Everyone’s trying to guess who did the bastard in. It’s taking everything in me to keep quiet until the official statement drops.”

“You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

“Chill? Oh, no, kid, there ain’t nothing chill here. My baby took out the _Joker_! I’m going to be bragging about this on my deathbed.”

She would, too. That was exactly the sort of thing Frankie Harker would hold up as proudly as other parents did their children’s honor roll certificates.

Paz pinched the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to stave off the second wave of the headache from hell. “And Ron?”

Ron was not actually Paz’s father, and only legally became her step-father three years ago, but Paz’s family and his had been neighbors for as long as Paz could remember, and Paz and Ron’s daughter, Sara, had been trying to get their parents together from the age of five. (Now, Paz was pretty sure they’d already been an unofficial sort-of couple and just didn’t have the heart to ruin their kids’ fun, but at the time, scheming to get Sara as her step-sister had been the primary objective of her childhood.)

“Oh, he freaked out a bit, but I calmed him down.”

“Did you drug him?”

“What? No, of course not!” her mother said, as if it wasn’t a _very valid concern._ “He figured me out before I could.” 

Paz didn’t know how to answer that, so she didn’t

“But, seriously, kid, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me. Already talked to the Commissioner. Got a ride home and everything. He was nice. Everything’s fine.”

Her mother hummed, unconvinced, but she could clearly tell her daughter was flagging. “I’m gonna need more info than that, kiddo.”

Paz sighed. “I know, but I’m dead on my feet here, mom. I’ll tell you everything when I wake up.”

“You’d better. Otherwise, I’m dragging your ass to Ohio and you know Sara’s not gonna let you out of her clutches.”

“You’re _mean_ when you’re worried,” Paz grumbled.

“I’m mean _all_ the time, kid. And don’t think I’m gonna forget how you broke the news. You’ll get your comeuppance soon enough,” she warned.

“Mom, I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Paz said, very slowly.

“Get some sleep. And protection. I still have a few old buddies who wouldn’t mind watching out for you–”

“Mom, if you make me talk to your old gang–”

“It was _not_ a gang–”

“It really doesn’t help when you say it was the _mob_ instead,” Paz said tiredly.

“You still have a gun of your own, right?” her mother asked, breezing right by the issue and Paz just _knew_ some shady character was going to show up at her door in the next couple of days.

“Yup, under my bed and everything,” Paz said. “I’m going to go into a light coma now. Whether you’re still on the line is up to you.”

Her mom laughed, low and fond. “Night, then, sweetheart. Love you. You did good.”

Paz managed a mumbled “Thanks” before blacking out.


End file.
